Christmas is Over Three Minutes


A warm, flawless hand
glides cool around the curves
of brow, cheek, nose, and socket.
Like the hand of the Virgin
calm on the skin of the Christ,
running with pure free love.
The sharp edge of muscle
softens around full flesh
extends, contracts and holds
supporting the weight of past,
protecting the curves from solitude.
Christmas is over three minutes,
and I am not the Christ child 
comforted on the night of my birth.
Dreams of sugar plums fade into sleep.